


In Your Arms I Find My Place

by honestys_easy



Category: American Idol RPF
Genre: American Idol - RPS, Developing Relationship, M/M, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-07-27
Updated: 2007-07-27
Packaged: 2017-12-05 07:27:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/720415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honestys_easy/pseuds/honestys_easy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You never understood what being alive and in love truly meant until you met Blake Lewis.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Your Arms I Find My Place

The first experience you ever had with another man was ten years ago and you believed it would be your last. You were thirteen then, face still flushed with baby fat and youthful curiosity and desire. He was a high schooler you thought was so popular with all the girls. You can’t for the life of you remember his name now, but you can remember the way his hands felt on your hips and the slightly metallic taste of his mouth as your tongue grazed his braces. It hadn’t been more than a kiss – he had football practice, you had to get home or your sister would worry – but it was enough to stir something deep within you. Something that thirteen years of youth ministry and sports taunting told you was wrong.

Two weeks later and the boy was caught with a sophomore in the high school bathroom with his pants down at his knees. He was pulled out of school, sent to a military academy, his family ashamed to show their faces at church for months. You swore then never to let those feelings you had – the ones you’re sure now got you to try out for JV football that summer - get in the way of your family or your own community status. You started to believe those things the preachers told you, started to push those exhilarating thoughts to the back of your mind whether you desired to or not. You dated girls in high school, cheerleaders and volleyball players, and you even fell in love with one for a while. But her hands were never as rough or demanding as that boy’s and her kiss always left you longing for the jolt of excitement and completeness of that one kiss so long ago.

But to save your family and yourself undue anguish, you were content to never go near another man again.

Then you met Blake Lewis.

He likes to laugh at you when you recall how scared you were as the two of you grew closer every week of that fated competition. That you hadn’t noticed how you held your breath when he had brushed against you, how your entire face would brighten when he walked into the room. By the time you realized it, he reminisces as his head’s resting lazily in your lap, you were already too far gone to repress it, to ever turn back. He loves to relive the night he helped you finally understand who you were – who you are, as your fingers trail absently through his dyed hair.

It hadn’t been the first time you were drinking with the others in Hollywood. But reaching the Top 12 was quite an achievement, and you couldn’t remember a time when the glass in your hand was empty. You denied the pink blush in your cheeks and the swagger in your step, slurring that you were too classy to get drunk.

Dude, sit down, Blake had said, his own voice slightly off from the alcohol. And you always listened to Blake – even when he suggested sneaking out to catch a concert after hours or sleep in and enrage the Idol execs – so you complied. Seeing through blurry vision that there was no space left on the couch, you promptly eased yourself down into Blake’s lap. Gina jokes now that this was Blake’s intention from the beginning, but he denies it with a smirk, the wink he throws in your direction telling a very different story.

You tried to give a warbled apology to him that night, sandwiched between a concrete wall and a skeletal set of rusted stairs, but your words stumbled like your feet, and Blake was there to catch you on both accounts. He held your lumbering body steady with his tattooed arms, stopped the nonsensical flow of words stemming from your mouth with his lips.

His kiss was like the morning to a decade of darkness. The comfort, the overwhelming relief washed over you as Blake prodded at your lips with his tongue. It scared you, the back of your mind reminding you where this kind of happiness could lead. You whispered stop, and Blake hesitated, his arms tensing, his lips receding to a confused half-smile. The next day you explained it to him, that you weren’t ready for a kiss, a touch, for the crush of feelings over this man. But that night you had ran, mumbling an apology and trying to forget the way Blake’s lips felt upon yours like pieces of a puzzle.

That night I thought I lost everything we built between us, Blake tells you, his voice small and vulnerable. You and me – us – I thought it was all gone.

But you just needed time, both you and Blake knew this; and it was more than clear to you both the night you almost believed you were going home. You did believe it, the sinking, nauseous feeling in your stomach, more over severing the connection with Blake than leaving the competition. It was his will that never faltered; his mumbling voice reassuring you America would have never let you slip between their fingers.

It was his fingers you passed through that night, faded whispers and tentative caresses escalating into the best handjob you ever received, his forehead resting tilted against yours in the most intimate of stares. And even though you still claimed you needed time to get adjusted to an idea so far away from the love they taught you in Sunday school, you were completely gone by the sixth stroke, whimpering as you came without warning onto Blake’s hand.

You destroyed that upholstery, Blake jokes as you playfully push him on the shoulder, a jab that quickly turns into a soft caress. The maids never knew what hit them.

From that day on you were undeniably smitten, hopelessly grinning at seemingly nothing in particular, forcing retake after retake of photo shoots because you just couldn’t keep your hands off him. He loved that you confided in him – loves it still – when you told him about your first kiss, the only first kiss you realize now ever really mattered. Blake laughed said the first time a guy shoved a tongue down his throat it got caught in his braces, and the boy bled straight into his mouth. You’d think that would’ve turned me off to kissing dudes, he said that one night when your confessions to him left you bawling in his comforting arms. But that just made him want other hot fluids sliding on his tongue and down his throat, and as he says this he gives you that look, that both alarms and excites you.

You told him everything, about your fears over the world discovering the truth behind the football player, about how keeping a false front with a string of sympathetic women seemed to matter less and less each day. How waking up next to him each morning feels like you’re opening your eyes for the very first time. And on April Fool’s Day, you mumbled in your half-sleep that Blake better not be joking with this attraction because it’s felt more real to you than anything before.

Blake hadn’t answered with words the first time – he admits later that he was the one who needed more time, that trusting someone with his dick was a lot easier than trusting them with his heart. But he conceded and fucked you anyway – he did so enjoy entrusting you with his dick, he reminds you with a smile and a decidedly lewd smirk, and you can’t help but match it.

Yep, you fucked me, you say, resting an arm behind your head. He went about it slow at first, stopping every few moments to ensure he was only giving you pleasure and not undue pain. Words flowed constantly from his mouth, comments to soothe, to calm your tense nerves and extinguish that last shred of hesitation. And it was painful at first, you’d be a fool to deny that, but then a slow, burning desire replaced that, filling you up with warmth and the overwhelming feeling of Blake inside of you. And when he came inside you, cursing under his breath and biting down against your collarbone, it felt more glorious than anything else you ever experienced.

Now Blake makes a sour face in your lap, his eyes half-closed. Don’t say it like that, man. He hates terms of endearment, and it’s awkward and new for you not to call after the person you love as sweetie or honey, though it’s extremely fitting. Don’t say I fucked you, I hate how that sounds.

You laugh, his hand bounding slightly in your lap from the vibrations. He’s given excuses before for hating that particular phrasing, reasons that never seemed to click with Blake’s personality. It wasn’t rough sex so technically it wasn’t fucking, he’d say, and then his hands would creep over your abdomen, promising he’d show you what the meaning of the word fuck really was. But really, he admitted once when he played that one song in front of millions of people but was meant only for you, he hated it because it sounded too lustful and informal. He cared for you so deeply then, even if he didn’t realize it himself, and when you look back on it now he likes to say that the two of you made love.

Love. The word rolls off your tongue like liquid, and the low timbre of your voice brings an approving coo from Blake. It wasn’t fucking that night, it was making love. The statement causes Blake to roll over on his side, his body curling around yours in an attempt to touch as much of your body with his as possible. His warmth spreads throughout you, and he gradually falls into a contented sleep. You gaze upon his face and think back on how this doofus, this short, odd man with boundless energy and too much on his mind, changed the way you look at life, love, and your very own identity. And you smile to yourself as you realize, this…this is love.


End file.
